To Love Her or Love Her Not
by Mandelene
Summary: One does not choose to fall in love with Alice Kirkland. Alice Kirkland demands to be loved, and Francis merely obliges. He loves her at her best and at her worst. As ornery as she can be, she is his, and he wouldn't want her to be any other way. (Valentine's Day Special one-shot).


**Author's Note:** Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! Here's a special one-shot that **icicle223** requested I write! An anon also requested that I use some quotes in a fic of mine as prompts, and so I incorporated those quotes that were sent to me within the story! Also, thanks to everyone for sending me their brainstorms and ideas to help me write this fic. I appreciate it.

Enjoy and have a lovely day!

(P.S. The song Francis sings is called "Equation" by Camille and Hans Zimmer.)

* * *

" _Oh, she is devastating. Her smile is a funeral. All the boys and girls crumble like Rome for her." –Erin Van Vuren_

* * *

It was accidental—most of his life is.

Francis didn't choose to work in London, but when one's employment options are scarce, as is notoriously the case with those in his field, one can hardly afford to be picky. So, that's how he found himself stuck in the art department of this wretched university—a poorly funded and visibly understaffed art department, mind you. It is unrewarding work at best, but he is not at liberty to complain.

Therefore, he endures the grim realities of teaching students the intricacies of the elements of art. Many of his pupils are simply taking his course to fulfill a requirement. They think he will hand them gold stars and let them pass with flying colors because this is supposed to be an "easy" class, but there's nothing easy about cubism or abstract expressionism.

Early on, he is tempted to fail everyone because his students, for the most part, are rude and do not respect the craft as they should. He realizes, however, that his experience is not singular or extraordinary—all of the other professors from various subjects across the university face the same dilemmas.

He gets to know some of his colleagues in passing, but he struggles to find his place among them. Academics aren't always the most approachable people.

Luckily, he's able to spend his Easter holiday back in France. He boards the Eurostar train bound for Paris on yet another rainy morning in London, finds his seat, puts his earbuds in, and lets Edith Piaf's " _Je Ne Regrette Rien_ " soothe the homesick ache in his chest. While Edith sings about not having any regrets, he wishes he could be as blessed as her. This is not how he imagined his life would be upon finishing years of education in fine arts.

He expected to be curating art galleries, traveling the world, and giving talks on the masterpieces of Claude Monet and Georges Braque, and his wide-eyed students would listen to him with gusto and adoration.

He sees now that he was naïve and may have made a giant mistake. Regrets? He has plenty of them, but his sulking is brought to a screeching halt when he feels someone tap him on the shoulder and say something.

It's a woman with long blonde hair and mossy green eyes that are framed by her glasses. Her brows are furrowed and she looks a little winded—as though she had to rush to make it onto the train. And well…She's pretty albeit mildly intimidating. Something about the disapproving expression on her face makes him feel as though he's about to be yelled at by his mother.

"Yes? May I help you?" he asks, pulling his earbuds out.

"I _said_ ," the woman begins in an exasperated voice, "is this seat taken?"

He glances to the empty seat on his right and shakes his head. "No, I don't think it is."

The woman plops herself down next to him, tosses her bag into her lap, and lets out a heavy sigh as she starts furiously typing something on her phone. The poor thing is wearing a frumpy beige sweater that does nothing to compliment her figure, but her skirt is nice, and Francis has to make an effort not to steal a glimpse at her lean legs.

"What's an English woman traveling to Paris for?" he asks, recognizing her accent as one he's grown used to hearing over the past few months.

She stops typing, scowls at him, and says, "I beg your pardon, but I don't think that's any of your business."

Okay, admittedly, that _did_ sound slightly creepy. He deserved that. What is wrong with him? He doesn't even know this woman! And yet…There's something peculiar about her that makes it hard for him to direct his attention elsewhere.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. I was only trying to be friendly," he explains.

She glares at him again and scoots as far away from him as possible. "I'd appreciate it if you'd stop talking to me now."

He's not sure why, but the way she chides him is amusing, and he has to bite back a smile.

The train begins to move, zipping out of the station, and he mentally berates himself because he's going to be sitting next to this irate woman for approximately five hours, as he's fairly sure there aren't any vacant seats.

He goes back to listening to music and tries to ignore the woman's presence—no need to aggravate her further.

But when the train comes to an abrupt stop because there's another train shortly ahead of them, Francis hears a colorful swear escape the woman as a folder falls out of her lap and a pile of papers scatter themselves across the floor of the train.

He quickly leans down to help her collect them, careful not to look her in the eyes as he does so.

"Thank you," she mumbles, a tad embarrassed.

"It's no trouble. You're welcome."

When all of the papers have been gathered and the woman has settled in her seat again, she says, "I'm going to Paris for a research project."

Ahh, so now she wants to talk to him?

"What kind of research?"

"I'm studying dissociative disorders in individuals who have been in abusive relationships."

"Sounds complicated."

"It is," the woman agrees, glancing at him before swiftly looking away again.

"So, are you a therapist or—?"

"Psychologist."

"I see. I'm an art professor."

The woman scrutinizes him up and down this time and smirks, "I can tell."

"How?"

"You have an unfortunate tortured artist aesthetic."

"…Thank you?"

"It wasn't a compliment."

He chuckles and feels butterflies in his stomach even though he probably shouldn't. "You English women are all the same."

"How so?"

"Shrewd and witty but absolutely uncivil."

"I beg your pardon?"

He bites the inside of his cheek but can't stop his laugh this time, and that's when the woman gets _really_ annoyed.

"And you're a Frenchman, obviously, so you've no right to be determining who's civil and who isn't. You're a narcissistic, unfaithful, and cowardly lot!"

"Well, I never thought I'd hear such vulgar accusations from a psychologist, of all people. If this is where the social sciences are going, I'd rather not take an interest in them."

"You—!"

"Your view of French culture and norms is quite skewed. Perhaps I could change your mind? It could be your next research project," Francis jokingly suggests, grinning. "I could show you around Paris and teach you what the French are really like."

The woman scoffs. "I don't even know you, and it's clear that you're not the type of company I'd like to surround myself with anyway."

"My name is Francis Bonnefoy. I am miserable and hate my job…Now, you know me."

She raises a brow at him, and the beginnings of a dry smile start to unfold across her lips. "I see…"

"Do you have a name?"

"I just might," she retorts, regarding him for another long moment before finally adding, "Alice Kirkland."

Oh, she's going to be trouble. He knows that.

But he likes trouble.

* * *

" _Damaged people are dangerous. They know how to make Hell feel like home." – Unknown_

* * *

He knows she is the one for him. She, on the other hand, is not quite as certain. For that first year, she takes two steps back every time he steps forward. He will tell her he loves her and she will hesitate and let the silence eat away at them. He will hold her hand and she will pull it away. He will kiss her and she will gasp not out of pleasure, but out of fear—fear of everything they could become.

She is argumentative and stubborn. She makes mountains out of molehills. She is difficult in every sense—from the small things like not letting Francis carry her bag to the big things like never saying what's really on her mind and always keeping herself at a safe distance from him.

For a long while, he worries this is a one-sided relationship and that she is unhappy. He wonders if she'll leave, and, if so, when? There's nothing holding her back. He's not making her stay—they haven't even moved in together yet. So why is she toying with his emotions like this?

He gets his answer when they go out to dinner one evening. Halfway through their meal, he makes some kind of innocent comment about how he's been hoping they could move on to the next stage of their relationship—maybe begin to consider something more serious and long-term. In a way, he is testing her to see how she will react. He supposes that if he puts her on the spot like this, she'll have to give him an honest answer regarding her feelings.

But instead of replying, Alice stands up from the table in tears and storms out the door, leaving him dumbstruck. Did he say the wrong thing? Was he insensitive somehow?

He pays the bill and tries to chase her down. It feels like she's always running from him, if not physically, then figuratively. If she doesn't love him, she should just say so.

He finds her leaning against a lamppost a few meters away from the entrance of the restaurant, cheeks glistening with messy tears. He takes her hand in his and kisses it, and, for once, she doesn't pull away as though she's been scalded.

"What's wrong, _ma cherie_? Was it something I said? I didn't mean to upset you."

Alice shakes her head and muffles a sob against her other hand. "No. It has nothing to do with you. It's me, Francis. I can't do this."

"Can't do what?"

"I'm impossible to be around."

"Only sometimes," he teases, pecking her damp cheek. "I love you. I'm impossible to be around as well."

She musters a half-smile for a second before it fades away again.

"Just tell me what's wrong. You can be honest with me. If this isn't working for you or—"

"No, no," Alice insists, taking in a trembling breath. "I just…My whole life, I've always…Never mind."

"It's okay. Tell me. I'm listening."

She swallows thickly and frowns. "I've always been…Talked down to…I don't know how this is supposed to work or what it means to be in a relationship. I was convinced all men were vile until…Well, I still think all men are vile," she changes her mind at the last moment, smiling cheekily through her tears. "But maybe, some are less vile than others…"

Francis pulls her into a hug so that her face is pressed up against his shoulder and asks, "Is this about your family again? About how your brothers treated you?"

"No, it's not just them. It's my whole identity—everything. This is going to take me some time—a great deal of time."

"I'm willing to wait. We can take things slow. There isn't a rush. I'm sorry if you've felt pressured—"

"No, you're not the one pressuring me. I'm pressuring myself," Alice admits, leaning her forehead against his chest.

"Well, you shouldn't."

" _I love you."_

His heart stutters and an infectious smile lights up his face. He hopes she means it and she's not just saying it to make him happy. It sounds genuine, and when he looks down into her eyes, there's nothing but sincerity in her features.

"I love you, too."

* * *

" _Hell sent us the most evil disease, and we humans called it 'love.'" –Conny Cernik_

* * *

A relationship isn't built in a day—Francis has had to learn this lesson over and over again. It is work. It is cooling down and coming to a compromise even when you think you're in the right. It's choosing your battles. It's sacrifice. It's talking out problems over an evening cup of tea. It's moving to America together because he gets offered a job as an art director for a museum in New York. It's ecstasy and sorrow. It's getting used to the constant company of the person you've allowed to come into your life. It's acceptance and being frank with one another. It's loving your partner at their most beautiful times and at their ugliest times.

So, when Francis proposes to Alice while they're on holiday in Greece, he takes all of this into account and knows he's ready to bear whatever their relationship throws at them.

 _"Will you marry me?"_

And after months of worrying about Alice's response, he's ready to keel over with relief when she whispers an astonished, "yes."

They have their honeymoon in Italy, where Francis takes Alice to the Museo Cappella Sansevero in Naples, home to some of the most incredible sculptures ever created. As they walk through the exhibits together, he turns to look at her to see her reaction, and well, to say it's lackluster and not what Francis was expecting is an understatement.

"You don't like it?" he asks.

"No, it's interesting," she assures, trying to placate him, clearly. "I suppose I just don't understand it on the same level as you do…Is that supposed to be Christ?"

"Yes, the piece is called _Veiled Christ_ , and it's one of the most world-renown sculptures in existence. It was created in the eighteenth century out of marble by Giuseppe Sanmartino," Francis patiently explains, trying to contain his own excitement about how fascinating it is to be here and to see such masterpieces in person.

Alice scrunches her nose up. "It looks like his face is melting if you look at it up close."

Why does she have to rip his heart out and stomp on it like this? How dare she? This is art! Centuries-old art!

"Alice!" he scolds her.

"What? It's just my interpretation."

"You're terrible."

"Yes, but you love it."

He sighs wearily and wraps an arm around her shoulders. At least she made the effort to come here with him and is letting herself be dragged around from art museum to art museum even though she doesn't care much for art in the first place. He'll do something psychology-related with her, and then, they'll be even.

"Let's go before you cause another artist to roll around in his grave."

* * *

" _Beauty is a curse on this world. It keeps us from seeing who the real monsters are." –Unknown_

* * *

She gets pregnant on their first try.

Francis is positive this is a sign of good things to come. Though they don't know if it's going to be a boy or a girl just yet, he already begins thinking about how to turn the upstairs guestroom into a nursery and makes a selection of preliminary contenders for the wallpaper they should hang up. He starts spending his evenings on his laptop, searching for the perfect crib and the perfect curtains and the perfect _everything_. Their baby is going to have nothing but the best, and Francis plans to make sure of that.

And while he does all of that, Alice suffers through horrible bouts of morning sickness and lower back aches. She's constantly going to the bathroom to empty her bladder, including in the middle of the night. She craves random foods throughout the course of each week—pistachio ice cream, chocolate covered pretzels, mangoes, and lemon grilled chicken for some reason. It's all oddly specific, and completely different from what she normally eats.

But Francis takes it in stride and treats her like a queen, catering to her every need. Her ankles are swollen and hurt? He'll massage them for her (despite her insistence that she's fine). She wants crepes in blueberry sauce? He can have them ready in twenty minutes or less. She needs new clothes but doesn't want to walk around a crowded mall? He'll order some things for her online. He also makes sure she drinks plenty of water throughout the day and doesn't stay on her feet too long. But, some stretching and physical activity will probably be beneficial for the baby, so he signs up for a mommy-daddy yoga class and convinces her to go twice a week. It's also a good chance to talk to some husbands and wives who are also new parents and going through the same things.

At week 20, Francis goes with Alice for a routine ultrasound, and they find out it's a boy! He's overjoyed, and he can tell Alice is delighted as well—he's never seen her smile this much before. Soon, they'll have a son, and Francis is already brainstorming all of the things he'll be able to teach him—how to draw, how to speak French, how to woo a girl, how to drive (well, that last one will come a lot later, but it's still fun to think about).

Three weeks after the ultrasound, however, Alice shakes him awake at four o'clock in the morning, tears shimmering in her eyes, and complains of bad abdominal pain—a kind of pain she's never experienced before. She's convinced something is wrong, even though they were just at the doctor's and were told everything was fine with the baby.

"How do you know?" Francis asks her, trying to get a concrete answer out of her.

"I can't explain it. It just feels…wrong," Alice whispers. "Francis...Please…"

It's not often that Alice will outright say that she's in pain or put her fears on display like this, and so, that's when Francis knows it is something serious. He helps her change, and he drives them to the hospital, whereupon she gets another ultrasound and is seen by a nurse and a doctor who try to assure them that occasional pain like this can be normal and doesn't necessarily mean there's an issue.

But then, they search for the baby's heartbeat and don't find one.

Alice knows before either of them say anything.

 _Miscarriage_.

It becomes obvious when she starts bleeding.

It's devastating. All of the excitement and preparation—all of the hopes and fantasies about their new lives as parents…It all gets turned upside-down.

And Francis doesn't know what to say or how to react. He doesn't cry because that'll upset Alice even more, but what is he supposed to tell her? That it's going to be all right? It's not all right.

So, he holds her, and she lets herself be held.

 _"_ _Tu me dis racine._

 _Les larmes ou la pluie._

 _Fait chavirer les nuages._

 _Et si le soleil descendra du ciel._

 _Lundi, dans une heure, une vie,_

 _une semaine, une semaine et demie,_

 _une année, un million d'années…"_ he sings, recalling a song from _Le Petit Prince_ , the movie he intended to show their boy, so he could pick up French.

As the song suggests, the sun will descend from the heavens. He's not sure when, but it will, of that, he is certain.

And she cries and cries until it feels like she could drown the entire hospital with her sorrow. Francis is sure his heart will never be whole again.

Love isn't fair.

* * *

She blames herself.

No matter how many times Francis tells her there is nothing they could have done—these tragedies happen and we have no control over them—Alice continues to sit outside on the steps of the porch in her slippers, not caring about how chilly it is, so that she can be alone. He tries to convince her to come inside—to _talk_ to him. They're both hurting, and they shouldn't be apart precisely when they need one another most.

He will not see Alice smile for a long, long time.

And every passing day is heavier and more painful than the previous one.

She thinks there must have been _something_ that she did to hurt the baby—going as far as to suggest that maybe it's because she's not fit to be a mother. And when she says such things, Francis can only shake his head and insist it isn't true in the slightest, but this will not change her mind. Stubborn woman.

An entire year goes by. Precisely a year since their loss.

" _Ma belle_ , I made you tea," he offers Alice, feeling helpless as he tiptoes out onto the porch and sits next to her, handing her a comfortably warm mug—not hot enough for her to burn her tongue, but not tepid either.

She takes the mug, cradles it between both of her hands, and gives him a tiny nod of thanks without looking at him. Her eyes are trained on the children playing in the yard across the street.

He doesn't speak. He merely sits and watches with her, eyes burning with emotion when he sees the children's father come out to call them for lunch. That should be them. They should be hugging their son and looking down at him with proud, smiling faces. They should be making him lunch, and laughing, and telling him to take his shoes off at the door so he doesn't track mud all over the house. They should be brushing back his hair and telling him they love him.

He doesn't notice that the tears he's been suppressing all of this time have started to leak out of his eyes until Alice shoots him a mournful look and cranes her head up to kiss his brow. She caresses his cheek, and when he can no longer hold back a sob of his own, she wraps an arm around his waist and murmurs, "I'm sorry."

"No, _ma cherie_ , you have nothing to be sorry for."

"I know you want to try again…"

"Not if you aren't ready," Francis whispers back.

"There will never be a right time…but I'm afraid that we'll have to go through this again."

"I know. I am afraid, too, but I love you, and I have faith things will be better."

"Okay," Alice says under her breath, squeezing his hand.

"Okay," Francis agrees, squeezing it back.

* * *

The following November, they get their second chance, except this time, Francis is careful not to celebrate too much. They handle this pregnancy with greater care. They don't make preparations until the third trimester. In fact, they don't tell anyone they're expecting until it's too noticeable to deny. They keep their guards up, as that's the only way they can at least attempt to shield themselves from grief and disappointment.

They don't even want to know the gender, at least, this is what they intend to tell the doctor when they're sixteen weeks in again and it's time for another ultrasound.

However, those plans get tossed aside when the doctor says, "The babies are healthy."

 _Babies?_ As in more than one? Plural? Francis is certain he misheard the man.

"That's right. Congratulations, you're having twins," the doctor says with a cheery smile, pointing to a monitor. "See? There's one…and there's the other. Two boys, by the looks of it."

They're having _twins_. Two babies at the same time! They can hardly believe it. They'll need two cribs instead of one. Two sets of clothes. Two blankets. Two car seats. Two, two, two, two!

It's hard _not_ to be excited now.

Eight months in, when the summer heat begins to arrive and Alice is _very_ pregnant, that's when Francis can't stop grinning, impatiently waiting for the fateful day when their children will finally be in their arms—healthy and happy, they hope. He makes twice as much of an effort to make sure Alice is well taken care of. He won't even allow her to go down the stairs without his assistance. He keeps constant watch over her, and though this infuriates her and she insists she's more than capable of tending to her own needs, he doesn't allow her protests to deter him.

They come up with names one night when neither of them can sleep because their minds are reeling at the possibilities of what the children will be like and whether they'll get along with one another.

Francis decides on the name Matthieu, or Matthew, rather, because Alice wants to keep the English spelling, which is fine by him. Alice, meanwhile, picks the name Alfred, after Alfred the Great. So, Matthew and Alfred, it is.

Francis expresses his desire to dress the boys in the same outfits so they can be a cute, matching pair, but Alice curls her lips up at that and says, "They are individuals, Francis, and we should treat them as such. I won't allow you to strip away their personalities and freedom of individual expression."

"Ahh, you're right, so I should let Alfred and Matthew choose what they want to wear. If only they could talk immediately upon being born and tell me if they prefer blue or green onesies," Francis says dryly, and Alice sends him a half-hearted glare that doesn't have any real bite to it.

She readies a clever retort, but before she can deliver it, she hisses loudly and grabs her stomach.

Francis immediately jumps to his feet and fears the worst, ready to rush her to the hospital in the blink of an eye. "What's wrong?"

She smiles at his dramatic response. "Oh, calm down. One of the boys is kicking, that's all."

Francis lets out a relieved sigh and places his hand on her belly. Sure enough, he can feel movement beneath his fingers. "That's good. It means they're strong and healthy, right?"

"Mmm."

"Everything's going to be okay, you'll see. I can feel it."

"Can you, now?" Alice smirks, raising a brow at him. "How so?"

"Paternal instinct."

She laughs, and it's the beautiful laugh Francis has always been madly in love with. Unable to restrain himself, he wraps Alice in the width of his arms and kisses her, shivering when he feels her breath hitch against his neck.

"I love you, and I promise to love our boys as well," he vows, leaning down to peck another kiss to her belly.

In response, there's another series of kicks, and Alice grimaces. "Okay, don't get them too worked up, please."

Francis chuckles. "Sorry."

"I'll forgive you this time."

* * *

" _Hurry_ up. Damn it, Francis! Move faster! Do you _want_ me to have the children right here in the foyer?"

"I'm coming, darling. I need to make sure we have everything because—"

Alice groans loudly, drenched in her own sweat as she leans against the front door and growls, " _Francis_. You did this to me, now get your _arse_ in the car right this minute or I'll—!"

"I can't find the overnight bag with your change of clothes—"

"Leave it! You can come back for it later. Just _get over here_. _Fucking hell…_ "

"Okay, okay," Francis soothes, finally joining her. "Don't panic. Remember what the doctor said—take deep breaths and think pleasant thoughts."

"Pleasant thoughts? Yes, think of how pleasant it would be if _we could be in the fucking hospital already_."

"Don't curse in front of the children," Francis chides, patting her belly. "They can hear everything, you know."

" _Francis!"_

"All right! Relax."

"Tell me to relax _one more fucking time_ , _you bastard_. You try _fucking relaxing_ after you've gained three stone, carried around two watermelons for nine months, and have experienced what it's like to feel as though your uterus is about to be torn in half. Then, you'll have earned the right to tell me to relax. _"_

Francis makes sure to keep up his gleeful smile, even though Alice wants to murder him. He reminds himself to be a patient gentleman and, above all else, to be compassionate because he's sure if he were in her position, he'd have a few colorful things to say as well.

"Okay, _ma cherie_. Let's go to the car. Do you want to hold onto my arm for support?"

"I can support myself," she huffs, waddling to the car without his help. Once she's settled into the passenger's side, Francis makes sure her seatbelt is secure and reclines the seat a little so she can feel more comfortable during the fifteen-minute drive. Then, they're off.

He drives faster than he normally would, but not too fast because the last thing he wants is for them to get into an accident. He coaches himself to remain calm. Labor normally lasts a few hours, sometimes days, right? They have time, surely.

"Aghhh," Alice complains pitifully, tossing her head back. " _Fuuuuck_."

"Almost there, _cherie_. Do not worry," he says gently, taking the opportunity to rub her shoulder once they reach a red light. "Just imagine how wonderful it will be when the twins are finally born."

"Just take them already," Alice begs, curling her hands into fists. "They're _your_ children."

Francis laughs softly. "I'm afraid they're _our_ children."

When they arrive, Alice is admitted and brought up to the maternity unit. Francis stays with her every step of the way. She gets a private room, and before long, she is resting in bed, arm hooked up to an IV for fluids. A nurse comes in to check her and the babies' vitals, and then a doctor comes in and offers her an epidural, which she stupidly declines.

And Francis must suffer the consequences of her poor decision because when she's in excruciating pain later in the evening, he has to listen to her verbally abuse him and tire herself out as she curses and groans and asks if it's not too late for that epidural now (it's way too late).

"You're doing _fantastique_ , darling," Francis tells her, encouraging and soothing her as best as he can. He wipes away the sweat from her forehead and neck with a cool washcloth and periodically offers her some ice water to drink. He holds her hand, plants chaste kisses on her cheeks, and reminds her how much he loves her and how beautiful she is.

And if Alice were an ordinary woman, she may have appreciated his ministrations. Instead, she just scowls at him some more and grumbles, "How would you know how I'm doing? You're not the damned doctor."

So, that's how the night continues—with Alice deploying her vulgar language and Francis doing whatever he can to offer comfort, as that's all husbands are good for at a time like this. Until finally, the fateful moment they've been waiting for arrives, and he asks Alice if she'd like him to stay or leave.

"Leave? _You think you can just traipse out of the bloody room at your leisure?_ The nerve! You'll leave this room when I say you can leave the room," she snarls at him, and he obediently stays by her bedside, trying not to chuckle. She can be quite adorable when she's angry.

He worries he'll be squeamish and feel lightheaded, but he does a fairly impressive job of staying composed. Alice holds his hand so hard he feels certain that she has fractured all of his fingers and probably his wrist, but he doesn't complain or pull away. He just keeps a trained and steady smile on his lips and tells her how lovely she is—the loveliest thing he's ever seen—and that everything is going to be okay.

Because he really hopes everything is going to be okay. Otherwise, he doesn't know what he'll do.

Alfred is born first—just nine minutes before Matthew.

And they are healthy, wriggling, crying baby boys—exactly as they should be.

"We did it," he tells Alice as the nurse cleans up Alfred and hands him to her. A moment later, the doctor hands off Matthew to Francis.

" _We_ did it?" Alice asks, sounding exhausted. She's in need of a long night's rest. "You're taking credit for this? How typical…Men are all the same."

But he can hear the fondness in her voice and knows she's only teasing.

Sure enough, she's smiling several seconds later, and she holds out an arm to cradle Matthew as well. "Let me see him."

Carefully, he places him in her embrace.

"He has your nose," Alice notes before pressing a kiss to the crown of Matthew's head.

Francis grins, leans down to get a better look at the babies, and nods. "Yes, and Alfred takes after you. Look at those wrinkles in his forehead when he makes that face of displeasure—he certainly didn't get those from me."

Alice lightly swats his arm and then laughs. "Git."

"But I'm _your_ git," Francis reminds joyfully.

"Yes, unfortunately."

* * *

 _Six years later._

* * *

"Mommy! Mom! Mooooom! Mooooooooom!"

"Alfred, I heard you the first time. What is it?"

"Mattie won't let me use his crayons!"

Alice sighs and sets down the academic journal she's reading. It's always something. Can't she have a moment of peace? Just one day without worrying about getting the boys to school on time, making them do their homework, or getting them ready for bed? She loves her boys, but really, she must be far too lenient with them if they think she can simply supervise them every minute of every day and not get any work done. "Matthew, share with your brother, please!"

"But he broke the red crayon!" Matthew shouts back from somewhere in the living room.

"Alfred, I told you to be more careful."

"I was careful!" Alfred says, puffing out his chest.

"Well, be extra careful. Now, go and play _quietly_. I have some work to do."

"What kind of work?"

"Nothing that's of interest to you, I'm afraid."

And so, Alfred goes scampering off again, and fortunately, things are blessedly peaceful…but only for about five minutes. The sound of wailing pulls her out of her reading once more, and she sets her papers down before putting her hands on her hips, marching into the living room, and directing her sternest expression at the twins.

"What is going on in here? I leave you both alone for just a few moments and—" she looks down at where the boys are sitting on the rug and notices Alfred holding his knee as big, round tears start pouring out of his eyes.

"Alfred hit himself on the coffee table," Matthew explains innocently, twirling a blue crayon between his fingers.

"And how did that happen?"

"He was jumping and running around."

"Tattletale!" Alfred screeches, and Alice has had just about enough.

"Alfred, what did I tell you about running in the house? This is exactly what happens when you don't follow rules!"

Alfred simply cries harder, making a big fuss out of nothing, but Alice feels her heart soften, and she crouches down to get a look at the knee in question. It's just a small scrape.

"It's fine, love. It's nothing to cry over," she tells him, but he throws himself into her arms and continues sobbing. So, she brushes his hair back, gives the injured knee a feathery kiss, and says, "Come, poppet. We'll put a plaster on it."

Francis hears the commotion and comes to investigate. When he sees the state Alfred is in, he follows the two of them into the bathroom and smiles as he watches Alice carefully clean the cut and apply a bandage to it with great care.

"It still kinda hurts," Alfred whines. "Can you kiss it again?"

Francis rolls his eyes, knowing all too well how melodramatic Alfred can be and how he is essentially attached to his mother's hip at all times. He needs to be coddled three times a day or he'll be unbearable and throw a fit.

Obligingly, Alice kisses the knee again and murmurs, "All right, that's enough of that. No more running in the house, understand?"

"This is what happens when you don't listen to your mother," Francis chimes in.

"Okay, I'm sorry," Alfred mumbles, but they both know he's going to land himself in this very same situation by next week, maybe even sooner.

They watch Alfred leave the bathroom, and when they're alone, Francis chuckles and puts his hand on Alice's back. "That boy has you wrapped around his finger."

"He does not. Besides, who's the one who gave in to Matthew's pleas for extra maple syrup on his pancakes this morning—even though we specifically discussed how unhealthy it is for him to be dousing everything in so much sugar?"

"That was one time."

"But certainly not the last time," Alice remarks.

"Now you're going to lecture me as well?"

"Only when you misbehave," she says slyly, narrowing her eyes at him.

He raises his brows at her, pulls her into a hug against her will, and murmurs into her ear, "Tomorrow is Valentine's Day."

"Is it?"

"Mm-hmm. We could get a babysitter for the boys and go out for a nice dinner," he suggests. "How does that sound?"

"Matthew has a dentist's appointment tomorrow, and you know how nervous he gets. One of us needs to be there."

Francis groans. "Why did you schedule his appointment on Valentine's Day of all days?"

"Dental care is important and shouldn't be put off," Alice says with a wry smirk. "Besides, who needs Valentine's Day? We can go out to dinner any day—preferably when the restaurants in the area aren't packed with other couples. Furthermore, I assumed we wouldn't be celebrating Valentine's Day."

"Why would you assume that?"

"You never asked me to be your valentine."

"I thought it was self-evident! You're my spouse. Who else is going to be my Valentine? Mrs. Robinson, who's eighty-six-years-old and lives across the street with her three cats?" Francis asks sarcastically.

"Still, it's nice to ask. That's what a gentleman would do," Alice scolds him, wrenching herself out of his hug.

"Fine. Would you be my valentine?"

"You could say it a little more sweetly than that."

He sighs, prepares his most charismatic tone, and tries again. "Alice Bonnefoy-Kirkland, would you take me, Francis Bonnefoy, to be your valentine?"

"Why, yes, I was wondering when you would finally get the courage to ask," Alice replies, pretending to sound very flattered and surprised.

"You're maddening, do you know that?"

She laughs, and any irritation he previously felt gets chased away. "That's not the way to speak to your valentine."

 _"Mooooooom!"_

They both groan in unison. What does Alfred want now?

"I'll take care of it," Francis decides. "He needs a firm talking to from his father."

Alice snorts. "I'd like to see that."

"You don't think I can be tough?"

"Oh, you're terrifying. A real force to be reckoned with."

"I'm going to pretend that wasn't sarcastic."

"Okay."

"And tomorrow, we'll take Matthew to the dentist together."

"How romantic," Alice says. Being a mother has made her twice as snarky as usual. It's a gift and a curse. "I'm swooning and so very madly in love."

"As am I."

Francis knows this is just the beginning of a long, long, _long_ journey, and that's all right, as long as he gets to spend that journey with the one he loves.

"Moooooooom!"

But first, he's going to give Alfred a time-out.


End file.
